


Drawn to All the Wrong Things

by p1013



Series: Kinkuary 2021 [13]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amortentia, Angst, Escapism, Hallucinations, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Self-Destruction, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29440131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: The smell that roils out of the cauldron does little to ease his tension, though. It's green grass and sharp metal, apple-sweet and rich with sweat and loam. It rolls through him like a thundercloud, tempestuous and full of electric sparks that leave him aching.He knows what it is, knows this scent as well as his own name, but Draco refuses to acknowledge it, even to himself.Somehow, he's convinced himself that if he were to say it out loud, it would make it real. When it's just a scent, just a hint of reality caught and held by the air, he can pretend it isn't what it is.Pretending is the only way he gets through his days anymore.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinkuary 2021 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140512
Comments: 54
Kudos: 126
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	Drawn to All the Wrong Things

**Author's Note:**

> Day 14 - Love Potion/Amortentia

When he brews Amortentia for the first time, he's in his sixth year at Hogwarts and Slughorn is hovering over his shoulder. The professor doesn't say anything, just watches, but Draco feels his presence like a touch, and he wishes he could push him away. Everything is too much this year — his father's orders, his mother's tears, his own overwhelming, suffocating fear — and having yet another set of eyes so carefully on him makes his teeth clench.

The smell that roils out of the cauldron does little to ease his tension, though. It's green grass and sharp metal, apple-sweet and rich with sweat and loam. It rolls through him like a thundercloud, tempestuous and full of electric sparks that leave him aching.

He knows what it is, knows this scent as well as his own name, but Draco refuses to acknowledge it, even to himself.

Somehow, he's convinced himself that if he were to say it out loud, it would make it _real_. When it's just a scent, just a hint of reality caught and held by the air, he can pretend it isn't what it is.

Pretending is the only way he gets through his days anymore.

* * *

_You're so beautiful. I wish you could see yourself the way I do. It doesn't matter how many times I tell you, it never seems to stick._

* * *

The Great Hall is filled with smoke and the iron-bite of dust that clogs his throat. There's blood on the ground, though he can't distinguish it from the mud and the tears. It's all black anyway, the dim light of morning still too dark to really show much of anything. What little of it there is flickers through the holes in the enchanted roof, and as Draco looks up, he has a dizzying view of the sky in stereoscope: the magical version of it closer than it should be, and the reality of it far, far away.

His mother finds him there, his head tilted up to the dim sky and blood running down his neck. Her arms wrap around him like a vice, and he's shocked at the impact her touch has on him. It drags his eyes down, forces them shut, so that he can bury his face in her neck and breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume, tangled with sweat and a familiar grass green that Draco can't think about now. Draco's heart is in no state to handle that memory, already fading as _his_ scent is already fading, to hear those words echo across his mind as they echoed across the grounds.

_Dead_.

He clings to his mother as she clings to Draco, and maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to hold on.

* * *

_You have such elegant hands. Pianists hands. Or maybe a violinist. Something posh like that. They make music whenever they touch me. Maybe I'm your instrument._

* * *

Years after the fact, Draco still wakes up some mornings in utter terror. His sheets are tangled around his legs, his heart thundering in his chest, and he flings out his arms, reaching — always reaching — for some sort of balance.

His bed partner — some reasonably fit bloke Draco picked up the night before while too intoxicated to think to ask for a name — bats Draco's hand aside, then rolls away, mumbling something that fades quickly as he falls back asleep.

From this angle, all Draco sees is dark hair and broad shoulders, and he knows why he brought this man home last night.

When he lays back down and mirrors the other man's position, Draco shifts forward, closer, so that his nose is nearly touching the nape of the man's neck. Eyes closed, he breathes in, slow and deep, holding the scent in his sinus, in his mouth, letting it settle on his tongue.

It's not right. Too much citrus, not enough of that wet-earth smell. Sighing, Draco rolls away and goes to shower.

He needs to get this smell off skin.

* * *

_What do you think you're going to do after all of this is over? I want to travel, I think. I haven't really left Britain. Couldn't do it when I was a kid, really, and then with everything that happened, I just… I'd like to go to France, I think, or South America. Somewhere far away from here, somewhere he never touched. I'd like to see who I am without him hanging over me._

* * *

The bell above his shop door lets out a cheerful ring, and Draco turns for a brief moment from the customer he's talking to. The wine bottle in his hand is worth 50 Galleons, and Draco nearly drops it when he sees who's walked in.

"And you're sure, Mr Malfoy, that this will pair with the filet mignon?" The woman's hand on his wrist feels a bit like a spider, and Draco fights the urge to shake it off. "I don't want to ruin dinner with a poor pairing."

"Absolutely, ma'am," Draco says, dragging his unwilling eyes back to the matter at hand. "While it is a Muggle wine and from the States, the quality is excellent. Much superior to what you can find from Wizarding vineyards at the same price point, and" — he smiles conspiratorially — "no one else will have tried it before."

The avarice in her eyes disgusts him. "Wonderful. We'll take two bottles."

"Of course. It'll be just a moment for me to wrap these up. Will you be taking these with you or sending a house-elf later to pick them up?"

"House-elf, of course," she says with a distracted wave, already done with Draco now that he's served his purpose. "Why, Howard, is that Harry Potter over there?"

Draco tenses, because it is. He quickly writes up a bill of sale for the couple, then sets their wine aside for the later retrieval. Though their purchase is done, they linger in the store, trailing after Potter like some lost ducklings in search of their mother. When they finally make their way outside, Draco's already well on his way to a tension headache, and his shoulders feel as if they're made of stone.

"Good afternoon, Malfoy," Potter says. His tone could be considered friendly, if it weren't colored with so much awkwardness. "I'd like to buy some wine."

"Oh, really? That's quite surprising, all things considered. What with this being a wine boutique and all."

Potter flushes, and Draco is fascinated at how close in color his cheeks are to a lovely Bordeaux Draco had the week before. "I'm not trying to be an arse here, okay? I've just… People say good things about your shop, and I've got a special occasion tonight. I wanted to bring something nice."

"I have plenty of nice things here," Draco says, wishing he knew how to keep the bitterness from his voice. "What's the occasion, and what is the menu?"

"An engagement, and we're having…"

But Draco's ears are ringing, and he's suddenly, desperately afraid that he's going to pass out behind his counter. An engagement. Of course.

"So, do you think a red or a white would be better?" Potter asks, clearly not for the first time.

"Ah, so sorry. Can you tell me what you're having again?"

"A roast, I think. That's what Molly always makes for special occasions."

"Then a red." Draco gestures towards the red section of the store, his hand not shaking but only through sheer force of will. "If you'd follow me."

After Potter leaves, all Draco can do is smell apple-green and wet-dirt, and he has to close shop early so he can slump to the floor and wish he could cry for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

_Good morning. I brought you tea. No, don't bother getting up. You look so comfortable. Just lay back and let me take care of you. Yeah, I know it's going to get cold, but honestly, how could you expect me to say no to this? God, if you only knew what you looked like first thing in the morning. You're so gorgeous. Just… let me touch you, love. Please._

* * *

He doesn't live at the Manor anymore. It held too many dark memories for him to ever be comfortable there. Instead, he's got a small townhouse in London. It was part of the family's holdings, gifted to them by some Muggle aristocrat over a hundred years ago. It has not ties to the Malfoy's, no magic of its own, so when he took over ownership of the place, it had been little better than a shell of majesty long since faded into nothing.

They were a matched pair.

It took years to get it back into working order. The floors had been redone, the walls repaired and repainted. He'd needed to combine two of the upstairs bedrooms into a larger suite — no point of having a lord and lady's bedrooms when there would never be a lady or lord living in the other — but it left space for a larger, opulent bathroom, complete with magical soaking tub based on the Prefect's Bath at Hogwarts.

His potions lab is in the cellar, and he did very little to change it from what it used to be. The white tiles along the walls are still cracked, the floor rough stone and uneven, but he knows that it can withstand almost anything, since it already has.

Goggles on, hand protected by charms and a heavy pair of Muggle rubber gloves, Draco leans over the steaming cauldron. He's been working on this particular brew for years, and he thinks, with this last change to the formula, that he's finally gotten it.

The smell is just right. Sharp metal, growing grass, dirt, sweat. The sweetness is barely there, perhaps a bit too faint for this to be exactly right, but it's the closest it's ever been. Draco turns off the heat and carefully decants a portion into a bottle. Corking it, he lets the liquid inside swirl, watches as it catches light and reflects it back, almost like the Chateau Haut Brion Blanc Pessac he saw at auction two years ago.

What he has in his hands is worth ten times more than that bottle had gone for.

He makes his way upstairs, turning off the lights as he goes. Streetlight falls through the windows, and Draco wanders into his bedroom before detouring to the bath. The water is perfect when he turns the tap on, and as he waits for the soaking tub to fill, he cradles the bottle in his hands, waiting and already desperate.

His skin pinkens as soon as he slips into the water. It envelopes him, holds him close, warms the cold ache in his bones.

He opens the bottle and carefully, so carefully, pours a single drop onto his tongue.

There are only a few minutes before its effects will kick in, and he hurriedly corks the potion and sets it aside, where his flailing limbs won't be able to reach it and send it crashing to the floor.

As the room fades, Draco thinks he hears someone knocking at his door, but it's too late to respond, and he's drifting…. Drifting….

* * *

_He looks at you like he wants you. His green eyes burn across the room, and when you leave he follows you. You don't know that you want him to, though. You're looking to escape, to find a way out from under the unbearable weight on your shoulders. Your heart aches and it's full of fear and bitter anger at the unfairness of it all. The bathroom is empty — it's always empty — and Myrtle comes out of her toilet, her wide eyes filled with the tears you can't shed for yourself._

_"No one can help me," you say, throat tight, body shaking. "I can't do it."_

_His eyes meet yours in a cracked mirror, but instead of lashing out, you let your head fall again. Footsteps echo behind you, and then there's a wide hand on your shoulder, forcing you to turn around._

_"Malfoy," he says, his eyes wide. "Malfoy, what's… Are you okay?"_

_And though you would have lashed out then, you aren't sixteen and terrified now, not really. So you fall into his chest, eyes wet with tears, heart breaking, and you say, "No. No, Potter, I'm not bloody okay."_

_You smell grass and sweat, and when you exhale against his neck, you taste that little lingering sweetness, that last piece of the puzzle falling into place._

_His hands are gentle on you because this is a fantasy. He lifts your head, cradles your jaw, soothes your ragged sobs with his mouth against yours. Everything is soft and easy, and as he lays you down on the always-wet tile, you don't notice the cold because your entire body is burning, burning, burning._

* * *

"Malfoy!" Someone's shaking him, and there's something wrong with his lungs. He tries to drag a breath in, but the air is too thick, too hot, and with a lurch, he rears out of the tub, water pouring from his hair and from his mouth as he gags and coughs and retches.

That same someone drags him from the tub. The floor is soaking wet and ice cold. "Jesus Christ, Draco. C'mon, onto your side, that's right."

The wallop against Draco's back hurts, but it forces more of the water out of his lungs. His throat is burning, and his body shakes.

"I knew something was wrong when you wouldn't answer the bloody door." Another hit, another mouthful of water on the tiles. "You're too formal to let someone bang on it for five minutes without answering it or sending an elf to do it for you."

"I don't" — Draco coughs again — "I don't have a house-elf."

"My point still stands." The hand on his back moves in soothing circles. It's calloused and warm and shaking. "Fuck, I thought you'd drowned."

"Nearly," Draco says. And though he knows it's going to hurt nearly as much as nearly drowning had, he looks up. "What are you doing here, Potter?"

He's wearing a black coat with sleeves drenched up to the elbows. His white shirt underneath is just as damp, and Draco desperately wishes he had died after all, just so he wouldn't be haunted by the color of Potter's nipples or the thatch of hair spread across his well-muscled chest. His trousers, also black, are neatly creased until they reach his knees, and then they're just as destroyed as the rest of his outfit, all of it soaked with Draco's bathwater.

"I don't really know." His expression is steady, but there's a light in his eyes, a conflict playing out in the hidden theatre of Potter's mind. "But I needed to see you. After the other day."

"How was your dinner?" Draco asks. His teeth are chattering, but he can't bear to move, not while Potter's hand is still rubbing circles on his back. "Did your in-laws-to-be like the wine?"

Potter frowns. "My in-laws-to… It wasn't _my_ engagement we were celebrating. It was for Ron and Hermione. They're getting married next spring."

"Then, congratulations are still pending for you and the youngest Weasley." Draco shivers. "Could you hand me that towel over there, please?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." Potter gets to his feet, then almost falls, his shoes slipping against the floor. He curses but grabs a towel and drapes it across Draco's shoulders. After a moment, he reaches for another one and starts drying Draco's hair. "You must be freezing."

Draco nods, unable to breathe with Potter's hands in his linens, in his hair. "A little."

Potter doesn't look him in the eyes. Instead, he focuses all of his attention on carefully rubbing the water from Draco's hair. After a moment, his motions slow.

"I thought," he says, moving from the top of Draco's head to the sides, then down to the nape of his neck, "that there was something wrong when I saw you. I didn't notice it right away, not until I got home, but it kept nagging at me. Something about your eyes… Anyway, I asked around and got your address. I've been meaning to come by for weeks now, but I couldn't bring myself to do it until tonight." His hands stop, the towel limp around Draco's shoulders. "Guess it's a good thing I did."

"It's not what it looks like," Draco says, pulling away from the pity that's going to appear in Potter's eyes any second now. "I must have dozed off."

"In the bath. Without waking up once you went under."

"Yes." He pulls the towels tight around himself and staggers to his feet. "Now, if you'd please, I'd like you to leave."

"Malfoy, I — "

"You're not wanted here, Potter." He turns his back, every part of his body an aching bruise pressed on too hard. "You're not welcome here."

"You just tried to kill yourself, Draco. I'm not leaving."

Draco laughs, though it sets off another coughing fit. "Do you remember the last time we fought in a bathroom?"

Silence, then a stubborn, "Yes."

"I'd rather you not cut me open this time. So, please. If you could leave before you do any more harm than you already have, I would be… I would be very grateful."

"I don't understand."

Sighing, Draco forces himself to turn. "You never have." He looks at the small bottle on the edge of the tub. "I wanted to be a potioneer, you know. I imagined that I would finish Hogwarts and go on to study in Europe under the greatest Masters in the world, returning triumphantly to Britain to take the Wizarding world by storm. But I was instead forced to find a different way, though I guess wine is close enough to potions. It's got brewing and bottles, after all, and people pay you money for what you can provide. But it wasn't quite the same.

"So though I have no qualifications and no degrees, no formal education past what I received under the tutelage of Snape and Slughorn, I kept brewing. And I made that." Potter shifts, and Draco knows he's looking at the bottle. "It's based on Amortentia. It's not a love potion. It doesn't force feelings where there are none. It only gives its drinker a glimpse of what that life might be like, where you end up with the person you love more than anyone else in the world. But only a glimpse. Ten minutes is the furthest I've managed to make it last, and there's always a sense that you're in a dream. That what you're seeing, what you're feeling, isn't real. This is my latest formulation, and possibly my strongest. Normally, I'm aware of the world around me. But, as you saw, not this time."

"What did you see?" Potter asks. When Draco looks at him, he asks again. "What did you see when you took the potion?"

Draco smiles, soft and sad. His dignity has already been lost tonight. Might as well put the nail in it. "I saw early mornings. Kind words. Shared cups of tea. Sometimes arguments, but I imagine I would argue with this person no matter what the circumstances. It's a bit of a habit by now, I think. And I saw wet tile and blood, mistakes made and never undone. I saw regrets. I saw grief." He shakes his head and pulls the towels tight. "But none of it matters. It's all fantasy anyway."

"Who?"

Draco laughs. "You're the investigator between the two of us, Potter. I'm sure you'll figure it out. Now, if you could please get out of my house and out of my life, I would like to get dressed for bed."

Potter stares at Draco, and Draco stares back. If this is to be the last time that Draco Malfoy is going to ever see Harry Potter in person, he's going to look his fill.

His eyes are so bloody green, even in the dark. His hair curls around his face, catches the frames of his glasses, loops about his ears. It's longer than he wore it in school, and it brushes his collar, clings to his neck the way Draco wants to. 

"Draco." Potter takes a step forward, no signs of hesitancy in the motion. His hands are strong and sure on Draco's upper arms. "Who did you see?"

"The same person I always see," Draco says softly. "The person I see now. The person I'll see in the future. You."

Potter kisses him.

It's nearly as much of a shock as the cold tile against Draco's body when he'd been dragged from the tub. The caress washes over him, pulls him under, leaves him gasping for air. Potter's hands on his arms, his shoulders, his throat, his jaw, they all drag Draco towards the surface, towards light.

Soon, they're stumbling their way into Draco's bedroom, falling onto the wide, soft bed. Harry's clothes are soaked, and the buttons stubborn as they both fight to undo them, but eventually, they're pressed closed together. Naked skin on naked skin, hands roaming across flesh previously unseen, both of them ravenous and desperate for each other.

Draco doesn't usually bottom, but he works himself open with lubed fingers as Harry pants against his mouth.

"Please," he groans, lips dragging against Draco's pulse, "please, I want to be inside of you. I need to feel you, Draco. God, please."

"Yes." Another twist, another aching spread. "Yes."

When Harry slips inside of Draco, they both groan. It's too much and not enough, and though Draco loves the feeling of being filled, of knowing that Harry's as close to him as two people can be, he also needs the man to bloody _move_.

It makes Harry laugh, and he kisses Draco with the sweetness of it on his tongue. The room fills with the scent of their bodies, of musk and sweat and come. When Draco buries his hands in Harry's locks, it releases the smell of green apples. It's bright and warm, and pleasure curls low and dark in Draco's gut.

"So good for me," Harry says against Draco's ear, his voice ragged and damp. "God, you feel so good for me, Draco. You're so beautiful. I wish you could see yourself…"

And as Draco comes, he wakes.

* * *

Bathrobe around his shoulders, glass of brandy in his hand, Draco stares at the bottle on his desk. He takes a careful sip, lets the liquor on his tongue ease the ache in his chest. There's a copy of that morning's _Prophet_ next to it, Potter's engagement announcement smeared across the front page like a personal attack.

He'd nearly believed…

But, no. As he takes another drink, he knows. He won't make a better brew than this. So as soon as he finishes his glass and climbs into the clean sheets of his bed, he takes the small bottle in his hands.

And he downs the whole thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, look. I know it's kinkuary. I know it's Valentine's Day. But I cannot write a love potion fic without it being full of angst. I'm sorry.
> 
> If it makes you feel any better, Draco doesn't die from taking the entire potion. He's just, y'know, in a coma for a bit. But it's a happy coma!
> 
> I'm sorry!


End file.
